


a landmark

by litteringfire (heartrapier)



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Gen, sorta Girs Crisis-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:39:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartrapier/pseuds/litteringfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shion is wringing himself dry. Chrono stays back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a landmark

**Author's Note:**

> pre-GC15; basically chrono would already know about myoujin but not his relationship with rive.

Chrono tackles the plastic bag with his left hand as he takes out the spare key.

Shion’s new residence is nondescript, none of its part stands out. From the road, he recognises the side of the building where Shion’s apartment is located easily enough. The windows are open, and the light inside the room is off. A sheet hanging by flaps over the railings, blown by the night breeze.

Turning the key by the door, Chrono lets himself into the room without an excuse. His steps are hasty, almost panicked.

His hand gropes around the wall for the light switch, and presses on it as soon as he finds a protrusion.

He is not surprised when there is no one to greet him.

He stalks towards the window frame, his socks making soft scratching noises against the tatami mat. Dragging the panels closed, tugging on the curtains, smelling the night dust, Chrono breathes against clasped hands pressed over the bridge of his nose.

The plastic bag rustles as he leans over the windowsill, and then thumps as it is placed on top of the small round table in the centre of the room.

Shion keeps his school supplies in the bottom drawer of his closet; Chrono grabs a red pen and a piece of paper torn from a used exam paper. Scrawling a few words in a few seconds, barely inspecting it, Chrono sticks the note inside the plastic bag, and tosses the pen back into the drawer.

He remembers to turn off the lights and lock the door when he departs.

 

 

 

Chrono always arrives at the school just in time for the crowd.

The walk towards the building is filled with a mixture of laughters and gossips and quick, shuffling steps. In this sea of people in similar uniforms, one would need to strain eyes to find a particular person.

Shion’s back is distinct; his spine is straight and his shoulders are broad, his hips balanced and his steps calculated. Fencing nurtures order in his posture, and pride lifts his chin.

Close to jumping, Chrono grabs Shion by the forearm, bumping onto the ebbing flow of students around them.

Complaints evaporate before they can reach his ears; Chrono doesn’t wait for Shion’s response before slamming his feet onto the ground and pulling the two of them under one of the trees lining up the path.

“Chrono!” Shion beams, all teeth, “Good morning.”

“Where did you go last night?” Chrono hisses; his grip on Shion’s arm tightens. It should hurt, that amount of strength.

Shion doesn’t wince, doesn’t stop smiling.

Instead, he says, “Thanks for coming by yesterday,” and fiddles with the bottom hemline of his uniform jacket, his school bag slipping off his fingers. “Your curry was tasty.”

Chrono’s breath is caught. Something inside of him is let loose, relief and gladness winning over frustration. But he thinks of the body he is holding on to, the person whose soul wanders with energy fueled by thirst for revenge.

“Shion, please,” he whispers.

Shion doesn’t stop smiling, but he winces, at last, and caresses Chrono’s grip with neatly-trimmed fingernails.

“We should get to class.” Shion says, with finality.

When Shion walks away, his pace is irregular. Chrono is still clinging onto him, desperation screaming in his every muscle.

“I will bring some more food later,” his voice trembling, Chrono’s eyebrows furrowed, “please make sure to be home.”

Shion smiles.

 

 

 

Chrono runs up the stairs.

He frantically pauses half a step before reaching the top, fixing the position of the box bobbing inside a plastic bag in his left hand. It’s warm, contrasting heavily with the breeze gently tickling at his nape.

He shoves and twists the key; it clicks, loudly, in this otherwise silent night.

The room is lit up and Shion sits by the windowsill with his sleeves rolled up, hair blown back by the minute wind he lets in through the gap in the windows.

“You could’ve knocked, at least,” Shion says, stepping down to rest by the round table.

The black jacket is not draped on his shoulders as it tends to do; it’s meticulously folded on top of a number of thin pocketbooks, sprawled over a cornered shelf.

Chrono makes an inelegant glide towards the table and drops the plastic bag in Shion’s outstretched hands, the spare key shifting out of his fingers. “You're home.”

The edges of Shion’s mouth slip into an empty smile.

“It’s meat and potatoes today,” opening the box in fascination, Shion then stands up to grab some plates. “Are you eating with me?”

“Yeah,” Chrono says. He sounds too careful, doubt and worry parading as an itch in his head.

Chrono shuffles towards the mini pantry in which Shion keeps his kitchen supplies and grabs a pair of chopsticks without asking for permission. It is his, after all. His name is doodled on the top half of the eating utensil, with a red-purple marker. Tokoha’s lays a little lower within the pile, her name in bright green. Parts of his chopsticks are scrapped mildly, worn out from use; tiny, unnoticeable crooks.

Dinner is a silent, small affair. The air rings with noises from chopsticks clinking against a plate, squelches from picking up pieces of meat, and huffs of breath.

Shion finishes first; he pulls a napkin and dabs on his soiled lips, grace in his every movement.

And before Chrono can even swallow his second to last bite, Shion makes a motion to put on the dark, dark jacket.

Almost getting a whiplash, Chrono swivels fast, and nearly claws at Shion’s wrist.

“You’re going?” Chrono asks, coughing, half-munched food stuck in throat.

Shion hands him a glass of iced water. Smiling, he says, “I have an appointment.”

Chrono understands. He is aware that Shion is going to browse through shaded alleyways, speak with many elusive personages, and at the rate he is going, Shion will be another resident of that unreachable place.

“You shouldn’t,” Chrono says, furrowing his eyebrows. A glare, and a strict, irrefutable grip. “You shouldn’t let hatred swallow you up like this.”

Shion smiles, but his eyes reflect a degree of pain.

“Chrono,” there is a soft, trumming layer to his voice as Shion looks Chrono straight in the eye and says, “hatred drives you forward.”

Chrono shakes his head, breath caught. “Not like this, Shion. It’s ruining you.”

“It isn't,” Shion answers, chin lifted sharply. Stepping firmly forward to decrease their distance, he says, “Little by little, I’m getting closer. It’s keeping me on my toes, Chrono. My hatred for Ace is showing me the way to where they are waiting.”

“Stop it,” Chrono holds back a shout, “Shion, for one day. One day, at least. Can you quit it?”

“No.”

Shion’s smile hasn’t left his moonlight-painted face.

“They are going to slip out of my fingers if I even go as far as to stop,” Shion puts out a fist, digging his nails into his palm with force. His teeth grit, and it’s a loud effect that sends shivers down Chrono’s spine. “I will keep hating. I will be unforgiving. If that means it can lead me to them, I will be cruel.”

“Shion,” Chrono pleads, “don’t do this.”

“You, too, Chrono,” Shion’s gaze sharpens, and for others it would look venomous, “don’t you hate Myoujin Ryuzu?”

Chrono breathes, close enough to share Shion’s warmth.

“How can I hate someone I don’t know?”

He’s found a face to relate the name Myoujin Ryuzu to. He’s seen the profile attached to the man in question. There is a background behind this one character, and there are other stories Chrono doesn’t have the means to know. All he has is this: Myoujin Ryuzu is a figure of evil to Ibuki Kouji.

But once, Ibuki Kouji had been a source of pain for Chrono, too.

“If I don’t know who he is, if he is just as Ibuki says,” Chrono says, haltingly, “how can I hate him?”

“Is what Ibuki says of him not enough a reason?” Shion asks. He doesn’t wait for answers. “It’s easier to hate those you don’t know.”

“How about you, Shion?” They must be numb, staying in this position. But Chrono keeps his eyes level with Shion’s—he needs to do this, right now. “When you come to know more about this Ace person than you already do, will you still hate them?”

Smiling, Shion says, “I need to return what they gave me.”

And then Shion steps back, turning around gently. His jacket billows behind him, and Chrono recognises the same reliable back.

It’s the one permanent truth shared between the three of them.

“Hey, Shion,” Chrono whispers.

Shion glances backwards at him, expression undulate.

Chrono wants to smile, leant back on the ball of his hand bent on the side.

There is a fire crackling inside Shion, burning his joints and muscles. To defuse the flame is not Chrono’s duty; it’s Ace whom Shion needs. Shion is grounded to Ace as he would to gravity; this Ace, Shion knows to exist only to be chased down.

Ace is a figure of evil to Kiba Shion.

“What food do you want me to bring next?”

Hand on the doorknob, Shion looks back with the same meaningless smile to say, “There’s something I must do tomorrow.”

The sensation of the spare key against the pocket wall is gnawing on Chrono’s thigh, thorn-like.

“I will wait.”

Chrono cannot stop Shion from stepping out of the door at this moment, but he can stay in a place for Shion to return to.

That's one thing Chrono can promise; a prevention of loneliness.


End file.
